


Friday, the sixth of August, 1965

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pre-Slash, bad medical practice, do not do this at home ever, he's fine he's totally fine just rather beaten up, it's all superficial and all non-fatal i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya has just returned from a mission, but Napoleon's night off might just be beyond repair either way</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday, the sixth of August, 1965

**Author's Note:**

> Written because of [this](http://iwilltrytobereasonable.tumblr.com/post/121207031760/icryyoumercy-iwilltrytobereasonable) tumblr conversation.

It's late. That's the first thing Napoleon thinks when he gets the call. It's late, and it's a Friday night, and he might not have anything like regular office hours, but even he tends to get Friday nights off. Apparently, today isn't his day.

His date hasn't worked out at all. As it turns out, having been in the same life threatening situation does not automatically make people find some common ground, and they had a nice enough dinner, but parted ways even before dessert, deciding that their evening would probably be more pleasant spent apart rather than together.

Then his car had broken down, for reasons that he sincerely hoped were not sinister, and it was entirely too late to find a mechanic anywhere, and just late enough that there were no taxis to be found. Napoleon eventually settled for walking the comparatively short distance home, cursing his choice to wear new rather than comfortable shoes.

He had been disarming the first of the additional security measures on his apartment door when Waverly had called.

So now, after another walk through the late evening, or maybe early night, of his city, Napoleon is standing in front of yet another door, gearing up to puzzle his way through a series of unfamiliar, deathly, and, knowing Illya, impatient traps and locks.

The key refuses to turn. The doorknob, on the other hand, does. There are no suspicious sounds, none of the usual catch or resistance of most traps. There isn't even the obstacle of a deadbolt or chain. The diffuse worry coming with the job turns into panic for a split second, before Napoleon remembers that whatever happened to the door, the man behind said door would be more than capable of defending himself against the vast majority of things able to enter.

Still, he steps aside, his back pressed against the wall next to the door hinges, and then reaches with one hand to cautiously push the door open. Nothing happens. Napoleon counts to five, then to ten. Nothing keeps happening.

Gun drawn, Napoleon enters the apartment, back to the wall. There is a small shelf next to the door, and a pair of shoes seems to be missing from it. The shoes in question are lying in the hallway, one just at the door, the other near the entrance to the bedroom. Napoleon uses the one nearest to block the door, keeping an escape path open for now.

It's quiet, and the lights are out, so the chances of there being an intruder still present are vanishingly low. And apart from the shoes, nothing seems disturbed, which would be counterindicative for most abduction attempts.

Nevertheless, Napoleon checks the kitchen and living room, giving both a cursory glance at best, grateful for Illya's rather Spartan tastes as regards interior decoration. Then he goes to close the front door, and slide both chain and deadbolt into place.

He doesn't bother knocking at the bedroom door, just pushes it open and enters. Illya is lying on the bed, fully dressed apart from his shoes and apparently unconscious. He's still wearing his holster and gun. The light from the street throws an eerie glow on the scene.

"Illya!"

There is no reaction from the man on the bed, and Napoleon is at his side in a split second, running careful but hasty hands over all pulse points he can reach with Illya lying like that. His heartbeat is slow and steady, as is his breathing, now that Napoleon is close enough to check.

Under normal circumstances, Napoleon would consider this good enough and return home, or possibly to Illya's couch and try to at least get a decent night's sleep from an otherwise ruined Friday. But Waverly had called him, and had asked him to check on Illya, and had said that something went wrong with what was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission. And Waverly knows his agents, and wouldn't call Napoleon for nothing more than getting an exhausted but otherwise hale and healthy agent to bed.

So he turns on the lights, and sets about doing something he never contemplated doing before. Illya doesn't react to being turned over onto his back, nor to Napoleon removing his belt and trousers, or his gun. The shirt and holster are more difficult, and in the end, Napoleon settles for turning Illya back on his stomach, not having hands enough to lift him off the bed while removing his shirt.

He bites his tongue, then, on what might have been a curse or a cry or a whimper. He isn't sure, and he is fairly certain that he prefers not knowing. Illya's back is coverd in lash marks, some bruised and some bleeding. Napoleon can't resist the impulse to run his hands over them, as though his touch alone would soothe the injury. Judging by the way Illya flinches, it doesn't.

"Illya?", Napoleon tries again.

"No," Illya tells him.

Napoleon can't help but smile. "Illya," he says, a statement this time, not a question.

Illya makes a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper.

"First aid kit?", Napoleon asks him.

"Bed," Illya mumbles, and manages to lift one hand to make a sort of vaguely downwards gesture.

Napoleon obediently checks underneath the bed, retrieving not a first aid kit, but what seems to be a first aid store room. And yet in spite of bandages enough for an average mummy, there isn't a single bottle of disinfectant.

Illya makes a noise that might have been a question in a man more awake.

"Disinfectant?", Napoleon asks, not bothering with any additional words.

"Kitchen."

"Kitchen?"

This time, the noise Illya makes is something like a pained growl, and Napoleon sees him flinch again under the harsh exhale.

"Broken ribs?"

"Kitchen!," Illya repeats, then adds, "Yes."

Napoleon leaves, obediently. The kitchen yields milk, orange juice, potatoes, a cupboard full of improbable spices, various cleaning solutions, and finally, right in the corner, over the oven, a rather impressive collection of alcoholic drinks. Part of Napoleon wants to just grab the first bottle within reach, but he has had mandatory first aid training, and he knows that the forty or fifty percent alcohol most substances in Illya's collection have tend to prove more trouble than they're worth. He keeps searching in hopes that Illya does, too.

He finds, behind various bottles of expensive spirits, three frighteningly large, still sealed bottles of Everclear. For a moment, he wonders at Illya's priorities, considering the alcohol taxes, before realising that he should be more concerned about his own priorities, considering the fact that Illya is still bleeding and Napoleon should be patching him up, not judging his choice of disinfectants.

"This is going to hurt, just for a moment," he tells Illya, just to see him grin. Then, he pours a generous amount of the substance over Illya's back, fascinated by the way Illya's muscles tense, trying to supress the reflexive flinch.

Napoleon sets the bottle on the night stand, runs his hands over Illya's back again, spreading the alcohol in the few seconds before it evaporates. There are four lines on Illya's back bleeding sluggishly, and two more where the skin has been scraped enough to be more than a simple bruise. And then there is a seventh one, wrapping around Illya's ribs, a cut so sharp it looks like it was left by a knife rather than a leash if it weren't for the surrounding bruises. For just a second, Napoleon is fiercely glad that whoever did this to his partner only used a single tail whip.

He picks up the bottle again to thoughts of swift and bloody revenge, and a square of gauze, wishing he had something smoother. But apparently, Illya's aversion to comfort extends to even this. The cotton weave is rough against his fingers, and will be rougher yet against Illya's broken skin, especially in combination with the alcohol, but there is nothing he can do about either at the moment. He does heave a sigh as he soaks the gauze, and when Illya flinches from Napoleon swiping various bits of cloth, sand, and gravel away from the lash marks, he tuts at him.

"You have me acting like my mother," he tells Illya when he realises that he had been talking this whole time, admonishing Illya to be more careful, telling him off for taking unnecessary risks, questioning his judgement and sanity.

Illya smiles, relaxing the slightest bit. "I am certain she would appreciate knowing she had some influence on you."

Napoleon takes advantage of Illya's distraction to clean the cut running across his ribs, easily avoiding Illya's attempt at punching him in retaliation. "Can you turn over?," he asks, once he isn't in imminent danger of clumsy attempts at bodily harm any longer.

"I would prefer not to," Illya says, his voice almost fully under his control again.

"Can you sit?", Napoleon asks. He didn't take a proper look at Illya's injuries while undressing him, and he needs to know how badly the lash wrapped. Illya gives him a _look_ in exchange.

"I would prefer not to," he repeats, while carefully levering himself up on his knees, keeping his back straight, muscles tensing just enough to start trembling. "I will still try, if it pleases you."

"You're kneeling now," Napoleon points out after a moment of awkward silence. Illya glares at him, and Napoleon manages to focus on his eyes again, instead of the way Illya's underwear really is far too loose and too prone to slipping down. He knows that really, thoughts like this are far from appropriate, or even vaguely acceptable, especially in regards to his partner, his severely injured partner. But he had been expecting his evening to develop in a quite different direction, and instead of the anticipated adrenaline rush that would have taken care of that particular frustration, he is now sitting in a reasonably safe apartment, patching up various non-fatal injuries.

He is abstractly glad for Illya's safety, but his body is clamouring for adrenaline, for endorphins, for anything that would leave him exhausted and relaxed after weeks and weeks of tension built up over sleepless nights and mission after mission going just wrong enough to annoy, but never enough to get him into serious danger. Adding to that Illya's absence for the last month almost, Napoleon is just frustrated enough that he can't keep his control from slipping. And consequently, noticing things about Illya he really shouldn't be noticing, neither as a man nor as a friend.

"Napoleon?", Illya eventually asks, and Napoleon jumps. He closes his eyes, draws a deep breath, and then tries to focus on Illya's injuries, and only his injuries. The cut wraps around Illya's side, starting just underneath his shoulderblade and ending in a painful looking patch of split and torn skin on his belly, just underneath his lowest rib.

Napoleon tries his best to be gentle in cleaning the wound, but between the rough cotton, the alcohol, and Illya's exhaustion, he knows even the most gentle touch will hurt. Illya neither shouts nor flinches, but his entire body goes tremblingly tense and he draws in a sharp breath between clenched teeth, his head automatically tilting back, drawing his torso into a graceful arch, and putting just enough strain on the cut for it to start bleeding freely again.

"Will I need stitches?", Illya asks, his tone strangely melodious.

It takes Napoleon several moments to realise that between Illya's usual inflection and the tension still running in his jaw, this would be the equivalent of a carefully blanked monotone in anyone else. The desire to run his hands over Illya's uninjured side, gentling him like a nervous stallion, is almost overwhelming. "There's too much swelling for that, still," he says instead, and then has to snatch his finger back from where he was trying to trace the cut yet again.

"Do you know how many ribs you've broken?"

"Three or four left, the others seem only bruised. The lowest two right, but none bruised."

Napoleon winces, and puts down the bandages again. "Can I check?", he asks. It's not that he doesn't trust Illya, but bandaging broken ribs is difficult enough knowing where to be careful, and Illya's description simply doesn't tell him enough.

Illya raises his arms just enough to make the gesture visible. "If it will reassure you," he says. Napoleon picks up the Everclear again, pours some more over his hands, rubbing them until the alcohol has evaporated completely, and then turns to sit across from Illya, as close as he can. "Deep breath," he says, hands spread over the length of Illya's ribcage, trying to keep the pressure to a minimum while still making sure that he would feel any shifting bones.

As indicated, the lowest two right ribs are broken. On the left side, Napoleon can't tell. Illya's assessment seems to have been correct, but it won't be enough. His left hand, he simply drops to rest the bed, while he carefully shifts his right hand to run his fingers over Illya's ribs. He resists the urge to apologise, and presses down carefully, one rib at the time.

After the third time, when Illya finally can't resist flinching, he takes Illya's right hand into his left, bites down on an apology, and tells him, "Squeeze. Hard as you can. It will help with holding still."

Illya nods and does as he's told. By the fifth rib Napoleon checks, he can feel the bones in his hand shifting. By the eight, his hand feels numb with pain. By the twelfth, his hand just feels numb. He counts five broken ribs, and knows enough to know that he'll need to get creative. There is no way to bandage Illya's injuries without worsening the broken ribs, and as bad as infected lash marks might get, Napoleon judges them as entirely preferable to a punctured lung.

There is a small roll of adhesive tape in the depths of Illya's first aid kit, and with a bit of trial and error, it takes barely twenty minutes for Napoleon to securely cover the worst cuts without having to put any tape on the minor abrasions. By the end of the process, Illya looks to be somewhere between asleep and unconscious, but Napoleon knows better.

"Illya," he says, and again, "Illya."

There isn't any response.

"Illya, talk to me!"

"Today is Friday, the sixth of August, 1965. My name is Illya Kuryakin. Your name is Napoleon Solo. I am currently in Manhattan, New York, United States of America."

Napoleon knows better than to ask for the current president's name. "I can give you an hour," he says, turns off the light, and goes to make coffee. He doesn't think Illya would mind.

He finds a timer in the cutlery drawer, sets it to an hour, takes it and his coffee to the living room, picks the topmost book from the highest of Illya's bookstacks, and settles on the couch for a night of constantly interrupted reading.

The book proves diverting, but ultimately no match for the nervous energy that had been building up over the weeks of Illya's absence. By the time the countdown hits the forty minute mark, Napoleon is up and pacing. He goes to wake Illya at fifty-five minutes.

"Illya Kuryakin, it's the sixth of August, still Manhattan, let me sleep," Illya tells the pillow after repeatedly being prompted. Napoleon doesn't like it, but there is little enough he can do, when Illya refuses to acknowledge him or even open his eyes again. He sets the timer for another sixty minutes and resumes his pacing.

At thirty minutes, he finally gives in to temptation, refills his coffee, and drags a chair from the kitchen next to Illya's bed. It doesn't help much, sitting still and watching Illya sleep, but he feels significantly calmer, watching the steady rise and fall of Illya's back under his steady breathing.

When he tries to wake Illya for the second time, Illya tries punching him. He misses by a mile, which doesn't seem to concern him much. He seems perfectly happy grabbing Napoleon's hand instead, pulling it to rest under his shoulder like a child would hold a cuddly toy.

Resetting the alarm left-handed proves a bit of a challenge, but it still seems easier than trying to get Illya to relinquish his hand. Five minutes later, he realises that with the way Illya is holding his hand hostage, there is no way for him to sit comfortably on either the chair or Illya's bed. He eventually settles on the floor, his back to the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him. There is no way to read comfortably, as the book is still new enough to keep falling shut of its own accord, but Napoleon finds himself not minding too much.

***

His wristwatch tells him it's five in the morning, clockhands glowing faintly in the dawnlit room. It takes him a moment to realise what woke him up, as his right hand feels just numb enough to not immediately resolve tactile input into reasonable information.

"Have I kept you up?", Illya asks, voice finally back to his steady monotone.

Napoleon could kiss him. Napoleon wants to kiss him, he thinks, and it comes as neither a shock nor a surprise. But there are things he needs to do first, and no matter how much he might or might not love Illya, cold fury would always take precedence.

"You've let me sleep!", is what he starts with, being both the easiest and most immediately obvious option. "Do you not understand the meaning of 'hourly'? Something could have happened!"

"Illya Kuryakin, it's now the 7th of August, the year is 1965, it's a Saturday, we are in Manhattan, New York, your president is called Lyndon Baines Johnson, and you are still scared of more reasonable government practices. Also, I must admit to some surprise at your choice of reading materials."

The inclusion of the president, by full name, no less, in Illya's reply is more startling than the statement as such manages to be reassuring. But Napoleon is far from done, and Illya's attempt at reassurance, while both failed and appreciated, won't stop him.

"Just because nothing bad did happen doesn't mean nothing bad could have happened! Waverly had to call me and tell me you were back! You wouldn't even let me know! You could have died!"

The relative loudness and pointedness of Illya's silence is testament enough to the extent of the untruth of that last statement. Intellectually, Napoleon is perfectly aware of that much. And he almost, almost manages to believe it, as long as he doesn't look at Illya. Illya, who is still only wearing those far too loose boxers. Illya, whose entire torso is covered with scrapes and bruises.

Illya, who is still holding on to Napoleon's hand, something soft in his eyes, at odds with his forcefully projected silence.

"I was told you would be informed as to my circumstances, and medical had priorities that did not extend to non-fatal, mostly superficial injuries," Illya says, addressing Napoleon's hand rather than Napoleon himself. "I was not aware you would worry to such an extent."

'You are my friend,' Napoleon wants to tell him. 'You are my friend and my partner and you are mine, and I felt like I was going insane after only a week without you, and it's been three now, and you are hurt, and I want to find whoever did this to you, and I want to hurt them, and I love you, and I don't ever want to see you hurt again.'

He doesn't. He just sits and watches Illya and tries not to embarrass himself.

"And, after all, your Friday nights usually seem to tend towards pursuits more entertaining than watching an injured partner," Illya adds after a moment's pause.

And both Napoleon's dignity and self-preservation instinct lose the battle against his possessiveness. "Watching _my_ injured partner," he says, the words coming by reflex rather than choice.

"There is a difference?"

Napoleon has to remind himself that saying 'obviously' would be crude. Instead, he squeezes Illya's hand, just for the shortest of moment.

"Oh," Illya says. Then he pulls Napoleon closer, and presses the lightest of kisses to the knuckles of the hand he is still holding.

Napoleon freezes, because that was not what he meant, he doesn't want Illya to think that he views their relationship as at all similar to his usual pursuits of a Friday night, doesn't want Illya to think that any sort of recompense is required, that Napoleon would ever dream of asking more than what Illya is offering of his own accord.

"I had hoped," Illya says, and then drops Napoleon's hand, makes to move away without any thought to his injuries. "I had hoped," he says again, wincing. "Forgive me."

Napoleon's definition of 'offering on his own accord' undergoes a rather sudden adjustment, and before his conscious mind has caught up fully, he is kneeling on the bed again, closer than he would usually dare, clinging to Illya's hands almost desperately. They aren't touching anywhere else, they couldn't be, not without causing Illya yet further pain, and all Napoleon can do is lean just the slightest bit closer still, kiss Illya's lips as softly as at all possible, and hope for his touch to convey what he lacks the words to say.

When he pulls back, Illya is smiling at him. The frustration that had been running through Napoleon's body for the last two weeks gets infinitely worse, while at the same time almost disappearing. There might be nothing to be done about it for now, or even for the next week, but he is used to waiting for Illya to come to his rescue, and what this particular rescue might miss in terms of heroism, Napoleon is sure the joy of it will be more than sufficient a trade.


End file.
